Le Petit Lapin Blanc
by karapuui
Summary: The White Rabbit from Alice, always fretting if he's late. Arthur shouldn't worry. Francis will always be waiting. - cafe scene, fluffy fruk. shonen-ai. only kissing! enjoy.


**Author's note:**

**okay, again - no panicking. im not taking a break from my VK fic, this is just experimenting on some of my fave characters from hetalia, on how well i can write fluff and kissy stuff. **

**this is shonen-ai. so those who dont like kissing boys, head to the backspace button.**

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><p>Late, who knew that he could be late? It was all the milling bodies in the damn streets, blocking up the pavements with their slow, idle walking paces. He could kick the lot of them into the roads, get them run over. At least that would clear up some space for him to walk! But even then, in the jam-packed city centre, the rush hour held up all the traffic. So if he was to kick some idiots into the cars, he'd probably <em>not<em> see them get fucking run over, but would instead be chased within an inch of his life.

But his blood was boiling in anger. _Fucking late_. He'd never hear the end of it. Arthur Kirkland was _never_ late. Not unless he was ill, dying, or if his kitchen was on fire. He could even manage coming on time in bloody _storms_, since he could predict his weather so well.

Swerving out of the way of a mother-and-pram, he also dodged a nasty-looking sandwich board man, who shot him the evils for crashing into his board and knocking it off one of his shoulders. Arthur snarled at a child. He elbowed an old lady out of the way. Truthfully, this was the most un-gentlemanly he could get, but he was a _pissed_ Englishman, and he was even more pissed that this was all _his_ fault.

He'd miscalculated. _It was a ridiculous time they'd arranged to meet – four forty-five in the afternoon._ Right slap bang in the middle of rush hour, when people were escaping their office block jobs to get to home. Right when it was the _hardest_ to navigate through the crowded, narrow pavements – **that** was when he wanted them to meet.

And Arthur had had everything prepared. He had his shoes on, his coat within reach. He was ready to leave his apartment at quarter past four. But then he was an hour early, so he decided to have a cup of tea and maybe he might have extra time to try baking a new _improved_ batch of scones.

Sad to say the scones _did_ make it, they weren't burnt, they were perfectly bouncy, but they were a rather odd shade of brown. Spinach scones… oh well. He still hadn't set fire to them, so they were a success by any rate.

He must've spent too much time admiring them, because when he next glanced at the clock, it was _**four twenty**_. Bloody hell. He'd never run so fast in his life. He didn't even know if the door was locked, or if it was swinging wide open for any old bum to walk in.

And then he'd run into this _people traffic mess_. Slammed his face in the back of an unusually tall man, apologised hurriedly, and then zoomed off in the crowd, worming his way in between people.

"-Excuse me! Pardon me! Oh gosh, I'm so sorry – that was your – oh gosh-!"

Arthur stumbled, finding himself suddenly without bodies to support him around. The break in the crowd came suddenly, and he found himself facing a pane of glass.

The café. _Finally. _

He shoved open the door, hearing the pleasant ringing bell, and immediately swept his green eyes across the room for him. He only hoped for once the damn frog had been patient to wait for him. No, wait, _of course_ he'd wait for him. If only to rub the fact that he was _late_ in his face. It was fucking ten past five now. Ridiculous, absolutely unforgivably ridiculous.

Ah yes, there he was, sipping his coffee _out of a bowl_. No, that was chocolate. The hot fumes were intoxicatingly sweet on the air. It calmed Arthur down a bit, and he paused, a good ten feet away from his target, to calm down.

If the frog saw him in this sorry state, the ribbing would be even worse.

Arthur quickly shucked his coat, folding it neatly on his arm, and tried to fix his hair, using the reflection off a picture-frame as a makeshift mirror. He could feel the moist dampness of his face, after the cold outside had condensed on it as he entered the warm café. His handkerchief didn't do much good, apart from rub his face red. Sighing, he turned back to look at his lover, realising not much else would make him look better. What a date.

But his eyes lit upon reaching his lover's three-quarter profile, and he felt himself relax. It was an unusual day where Arthur felt largely out-of-place from everything and everyone, and rather disconnected to life. He could relate to an out-of-body experience in comparison to this day. Everything was odd to look at, until his eyes fell on Francis.

Francis Bonnefoy, his greatest enemy and greatest ally. His lover and his friend. His tormenter and his bully. All he needed in human society, combined in one person.

From his perspective in the room, the lighting above Francis was like a dim spotlight on an aged theatre stage. The weak light softened Francis' face, his sharp cheekbones and knife-sharp jaw smoothed against his rich honeycomb locks. The light caught on the small fuzz of his silly goatee beard, and even softened those harsh bristles, catching them as fine gold hairs.

For a few moments, Arthur stepped back to just admire his lover. It wasn't something he did very often, probably because when they were together he was too busy countering the frog's perverted advances and irritating jibes. But moments like these were when Arthur appreciated the fact that he had someone so, admittedly, handsome and perfect (to him) in his grasp. A lover of his own, who was all his. All his.

His lip quirked when he saw Francis lick the bowl perversely. Some habits never died. He would always be a lusty Frenchman. But it warmed Arthur's heart when he realised Francis had changed, and where he would have at one time been casting his baby blues at some dainty dame in the café corner, or to the pretty server, whilst licking his chocolate bowl so indecently – now, his eyes weren't fixed on anyone at all. Perhaps Francis was not so much the flirter nowadays. Maybe Arthur had changed him. Maybe he was _enough_ for him.

Could it be that the pervert in Francis was all an act? Of course it was. Arthur knew it was. Francis lived up to the expectations of his friends, and even Arthur, by playing the act of an untamed, perverted flirter at any given opportunity. In public, when they were hanging out, he'd always wink at passing girls or blow them kisses, making Arthur sometimes very angry (it was a high-lister on the instigator of many fights). But it always comforted and flattered Arthur when he caught Francis unaware and saw him like _this_ – uncaring to the pretty girls (or boys) around him, even if they showed him interest. Francis just didn't want them anymore. Now he had Arthur.

Sometimes Arthur just liked watching Francis like this, when he didn't know he was being watched. In these moments, Francis would unconsciously show that he was _taken_, that he was _already in love_, that he _had someone_ who he was happy with. It was in the way his eyes were dull and waiting, glancing at his watch sporadically as he stirred his chocolate. It was in his stance, since he was leaning against one of those tall, small mini-tables you had to stand at – Francis' whole weight was rested on his elbows, so his shoulders rose up to his ears, with his long neck hidden by a thick purple scarf _Arthur_ had knitted for him. His arms spread across the table littered with all the empty coffee mugs he'd had, marking the table as his, as theirs. All of these details seemed to say he was just bored, but Arthur could see that he was waiting. For him.

Finally, he decided enough was enough. He had to break the water, face the fire.

Arthur strode to the small table confidently, Francis raised his head immediately, a charming smile spreading across his face. And Arthur had to pause again to admire it. He couldn't get over the way Francis' whole body had risen to greet him, and a perfect flush of colour was now on his cheeks.

From this closeness, Arthur could smell the rain drizzle on the purple scarf, droplets still caught on the wool fibres. He reached over to brush a few off, his fingers brushing against Francis' jaw as he did.

This seemed to give Francis the message Arthur could not say aloud.

_I want us to be loving today. No jibe. No fighting, even if it's all for fun. I want to love you. _

All Francis did was glance down at his watch pointedly, and back up to Arthur's green eyes. A small smirk crept over his lips, but he quickly assuaged it when he saw the slight guilt and embarrassment in his lovers' eyes. _No. Today there'll be no jibes. Let's be tender._

Instead, Arthur startled them both when he walked closer to Francis, took hold of the back of his neck and tilted his head back to kiss him. His eager lips pressed down onto Francis', and he let himself rest on Francis' shoulders, using his other hand to cup his bristly chin.

Francis' eyes fluttered for a little bit before they fell shut, and he tilted his head into the kiss. All of his weight was on his elbows, and since he was leaning, he couldn't really move to accommodate the kiss any further. He was very glad he'd taught Arthur how to kiss well, because he was doing all the work right now, and he was doing a very _good_ job.

For Arthur, the kiss was _intense_, and his face flushed hotly as he suddenly realised _they were kissing in public_. But he couldn't bring himself to care. Francis' eyelashes quivered against his cheeks, and he could taste the rich, bitter chocolate, and his mouth was scorching hot from drinking so many hot beverages, and – it was just wonderful. Arthur hoped Francis was enjoying the kiss as much as he was, because it _just felt warm_. And safe. And it was the best thing to come home to at the end of a busy traffic-bashing journey.

At the end of the kiss, Arthur's face was flaming, and he pulled back unsurely. He never knew when kisses ended. How were you meant to end a kiss that you didn't want to end? Their lips smacked against each other, and Francis chuckled tenderly, pressing his moist lips to Arthur's cheek.

"_Mon amour,_ that was _délicieux_," he purred happily, nuzzling against his ear.

Arthur suddenly flipped, snapping back to being a _gentleman_. He detached himself from Francis with his nose in the air. And instantly felt bad for ruining the lovely mood they'd had, and sank back down to Francis, an apologetic look in his eyes. Francis merely batted his lashes at him coyly. Arthur gulped.

"I'll go get some tea. Do you want anything?" he asked stiffly, biting his lip as Francis finished his chocolate and licked the drip off the rim. What a pervert. Francis grinned like a cat got its cream.

"Non, merci. I've drunk enough to fill a lake,"

"Take a leak then," Arthur grunted, rolling his eyes at Francis' childish giggle, and turning to go to the counter. He scoffed when he felt Francis tap his arse and his eyes following it all the way to the counter. What a pervert.

While he moved to get his drink, Francis rolled the still warm bowl between his palms, contemplating what a pleasant mood Arthur was in, even though he knew he'd had to battle the awful traffic and _unfortunate_ pedestrians on the way there. The time wasn't the best to be going to meet at, but Francis had just got off his flight at noon. He had retired to his hotel room for a few hours rest and wanted to meet Arthur as soon as possible, so they had to do it at late afternoon.

It was a complete novelty to see Arthur in such a good mood after he'd gone through all the trouble… but perhaps he'd missed him? Francis felt his heart flutter. He'd missed Arthur far too much too, which was why he'd wanted to see him so soon. The Englishman was notorious for being stand-offish, and some regarded him as being cold. Francis hardly heard from him when they were apart, because Arthur only permitted one phone call per week, which lasted _hours_ long on Francis' insistence – they had to have a compromise. But Francis knew the reason why Arthur was reluctant to keep in touch all the time – he was used to his own company, and he claimed he believed in the saying that "_absence makes the heart grow fonder_". He _was_ very fond of Arthur at the moment.

But their meetings weren't always like this. They weren't always so tender.

Maybe it was just one of those days.

He hummed thoughtfully, watching Arthur balance his miniature pot of tea and crumpets on a tray, another dish holding a considerate croissant with honey. The tray barely fit on the mini table, and Francis was forced to shift a little, though he wasn't so inclined to leave his comfortable stance. It had taken a good fifteen minutes for him to find this perfect posture, where there was barely any strain in his arms or legs, due to the angle his body hung to the ground.

He watched Arthur plop two sugar chunks into his ready teacup, lifting his lemon wedge and then dropping it as he instead lifted the lid of the pot to see how far the tea had steeped. With a decisive nod (Arthur often told him how café tea was not prepared right, and so there was hardly any worth in waiting for it to brew, hoping for it to get _better_. That was a ridiculous notion when it was already so bad), he poured the dark amber liquid into the cup, stirring the sugar lumps simultaneously till they dissolved into the clear amber. He squeezed the lemon wedge carefully, and finally lifted the tea to his lips.

And he winced at the taste still.

Francis laughed.

Arthur scowled, but his lip twitched in amusement. A raised eyebrow translated in Francis' head as "_See frog? Café tea will _always_ be bad"_ or more simply, _"I told you so"_.

The stubborn Englishman still persisted with his tea though, sipping it periodically with bites of his plain buttered crumpet. Francis hadn't even touched his croissant. His opinions on café croissants were much similar to Arthur's perception of the café _tea_.

Instead, Francis found himself transfixed to the gentle bobbing of Arthur's throat as he drank tiny sips. Without realising he was doing it, he linked their hands together and leaned his head on Arthur's neck, clamping his hot lips on his throat.

The angle was awkward, and Arthur swore as he almost spilt his tea on them both, but the lusty sensation of his lover's talented lips on his skin made him still. His right hand was caught in Francis', their contrasting fingers intertwined and smeared with the crumpet's butter. Immediately he placed his teacup back down on its saucer, not too upset at the interruption. It had tasted _horrible_ after all.

From the angle he had to hold his head at, for Francis to have room, he could see Francis' powerful broad shoulders spread to support his weight. His muscles shifted subtly, silky hair stroking Arthur's neck. Any thoughts of public indecency had flown out of the window. Anyhow, there weren't many people about, and he couldn't care less what they thought.

Francis' tongue swirled Arthur's skin, taking in the tangy salt from the sweat he'd worked up getting there, and he moaned so softly that only Arthur could hear. He rolled his lips up to his jaw and began making another hickey there, intent on marking him again, and tasting him again…

The tickly sensation of his tongue almost made Arthur giggle, but he felt Francis move up his neck to his jaw, and felt the tilt in his balance. His other arm came to catch Francis' head, fingers coiling in his hair, and he tried to support Francis and pull him _closer_ to himself.

The next half hour was spent with Francis sneakily planting marks all over the right side of Arthur's neck, relishing in the fact that Arthur didn't seem to mind _at all_ what he was doing, and he was getting away with so many things he wouldn't on any other day. There was something strange about this day, but he wasn't complaining. Not when he got to practically _molest_ Arthur in plain sight, and his lover was being so compliant.

Eventually Arthur was almost completely encircled in Francis, pinned to the table by his taller body, and he shuddered as his lover's hot mouth chose to attack his other side of his neck, where the skin was chilly in comparison.

This startling change in temperature forced him to snap out of his daze, just as a moan threatened to rise out of his throat. Arthur noticed what a _mess_ Francis had made out of them. In public no less.

He gently disentangled their legs, bracing himself on the table to shake Francis off, like a dog shaking off water. Francis groaned in disapproval, but truth be told, his neck ached from the angle he'd been holding, and he wanted to do _more things_ that Arthur _**definitely**_ would not condone in public.

They plucked their coats from the coat hangers, nodded to the café patrons, and slipped out into the city bustle, hand-in-hand.


End file.
